Dust to Dust
by Forged Obsidian
Summary: They had both been fighting for so long. Now, it was time to rest. Spike and Illyria.


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Dust whirled and swept around the desert, eddying through stone and mangled metal. The dead remains of the city - Spike couldn't remember which one - whistled as the wind hissed past jagged pieces of glass, steel, and what have you.

When the end came, which it did - no doubt about that, they really couldn't do anything about it. It was out of their hands. Nothing to do. Just sit back and let it all happen. It was out of their hands.

Funny. Angel had been certain that Los Angeles was _The One. _As in the real apocalypse. Turns out it wasn't. They really didn't have any power over the real one. What Buffy, Angel, and the rest had been stopping were pawns, really. The First - pawn. Glory? Pawn. Wolfram and Hart? Big sodding pawn. Or lone agents. Whatever. In the end, it didn't matter.

Spike couldn't even remember the year, save for the fact that is was around 476 to 479 years after Buffy had died. He could try to do the math, but really. He had a head for words, insight. Not numbers.

Blood gushed up his throat, drawing his mind back to the present.

_Oh yeah. Busy dying._

That didn't really bother him, though. Slowly turning to dust? Nah. Felt better that going crispy from the inside out. Well, maybe. His memory was a bit fuzzy.

They had won, though. Maybe. Did it matter? Everyone was gone - where, Spike didn't know. Now, it was just him and Illyria.

_Blue-bell?_

Right. The bitter Primordial was with him. Spike felt sorry for her, briefly. Soon she would be left alone. Spike knew that feeling. Quite frankly, it sucked.

Anyway.

He didn't remember much. Just some last battle. Last _last _battle. The one to end 'em all. At first Spike hadn't believed it. Just how many of those had he sort-of lived through? But this was the real deal. Then something like spears, and swords. Because - oh no! - heaven forbid logical _guns._

Literally. Heaven forbid. Maybe. Spike wasn't known for his listening skills.

Illyria shifted, propping his head up on her arm, the rest of his body held in her lap, like some strange child. His legs were stretched out, the edges of his worn duster flapping pathetically in the sparse wind. Her spare arm, which wasn't supporting his head, reached over his shoulder, trying to staunch the blood that gathered across his chest.

"Love . . . ," Spike sputtered, having trouble moving air past the congealing blood in his throat and lungs.

"Silence." Illyria was, as per usual, unreadable. She had popped up more often in this last century than the others. She had obviously felt something, though she was hesitant to explain what it was. She knew, though.

She knew.

"You know . . . that's not gonna do anything, right?"

She didn't respond.

"The whole breathing thing? Not gonna bleed out . . . " Spike tried to raise his hand, use motion to prove his point. His arm tired out, and flopped back down onto the dusty earth.

"I know." Illyria's response was weighty, spoken with authority. She would never admit to having 'bonded' with lesser beings, but she had. They all knew it. She knew it. They just didn't talk about it. Now it was just the two of them.

Spike didn't know where the rest had gone. Probably away. That's where they all went. Buffy, Dawn, Willow. Angel hadn't lived to see his 'destiny' or whatever play out. Got dusted the same way Spike was going. Slowly.

Bloody ponce had to be first at everything.

"Hey."

Illyria met his eyes. Electric blue. Kinda funny, when compared to the more human of Spike's eyes. Speaking of eyes, it was getting harder to see. Did that mean his eyes were turning to ash? Spike wondered what it looked like.

"You're gonna be fine, 'Ria. You . . . you hear me? Fine."

She shook her head, and something remotely weak shone in her eyes, and made itself known in the tense way she shook her head. "Fine? I have not been 'fine' since my awakening. First Westly. Then Angel. Now you. I am not fine." Her voice got more intense as she spoke.

Spike sluggishly shook his head. "Sorry, love. But the way I figure . . . you see, we're all going places. The people. The demons. All of 'em. We're just . . . taking a little longer is all." Illyria just looked at him, an errant strand of hair whisking across her face and stinging his cheekbone.

"So see? You won't be alone for long. Gotta go somewhere. Damn irresponsible to leave a force of nature like yourself runnin' around."

Illyria gave a small smile, then clutched Spike closer as he coughed. Talking had aggravated his throat. Unbidden, moisture gathered at the edges of her vision. Spike jerked, and Illyria looked down. He was grinning, blood stained teeth and all. "Stop your crying. Smurf."

A grin split Illyria's face, if only for a split second. Since learning of the origin of that particular name, she couldn't help but smile. It . . . _amused_ her for some reason.

"It'll all be fine."

Spike jerked again, trying to curl in on himself. Crimson lined his lips, and leaked out of his nose. His skin was peeling, slightly. Layers of ash swirled around them as Spike faded away. Blood stained Illyria's forearms.

Spike felt his vision fade away, until he could only see white. _Wonder what'll go next._ One hand came up to grip Illyria's arm.

"Think . . . it's my time and all that. Sorry."

Illyria could only watch. Spike's eyes had gone white, and his grip was failing. She removed her hand from his chest, and held his hand in place. The vampire shook slightly, his un-needed breathing shuddered. Every breath pushed blood further from his mouth, till it dribbled down the side of his face to pool against her arm. She could hear broken bones grate against each other - punctured, dead organs clenched with the spasms. Not much longer.

His head drifted to the side, looking away from her.

"She's gonna kill me. Taking this long."

Illyria's stomach dropped. The rambling before death was hardest, in her experience.

"Maybe . . . think I'll even get to s- . . . see her? Bet she went someplace nice. Her an' Dawn. Might even see Joyce. P- . . . probably not, though. Where they are? Not a place for Big Bad's."

Illyria stifled a heartbroken sigh. Heartbroken? Why would his death break her heart?

She had a heart?

"Sorry, love. So sorry." He was fading. It was likely that he would die long before his body finished turning to dust. Spike turned his head back to her, though he couldn't see. "See you soon?"

Illyria nodded. "Yes, Spike. Soon, perhaps."

He gave a muffled nod. He closed his eyes, and turned his head into her chest, still lightly gripping her arm. Illyria held him for some time.

Then some more time. Then more. The shuddering stopped, as did the breathing. Then, he was still.

She shook him, dislodging the ash that had built up on his body. "Spike?"

There was no answer. He was gone.

Illyria held him until all that was in her lap was a pile of dust. A gust of wind picked it up, and whisked it away. The Primordial stood up, looked around. Absentmindedly brushed a stray tear from her face.

Striding away from where Spike had died, Illyria went into the empty, gutted city. Finding an old bench, she sat down. She had forever to wait. Soon was just around the bend.

And she had an appointment to keep.

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**_FIRST OF ALL I AM SO SORRY I AM NOT FROM ENGLAND OR REMOTELY BRITISH I AM SO SORRY IF I MESSED UP THE WAY YOU GUYS TALK I'M SORRRYYYYYYYYY._**

**_I tried to make some bits of the story seem Spike-ish. I think I did that rather well, though maybe the descriptions got a bit jumpy. _**

**_The relationship between Illyria and Spike is something that fascinates me, as well as his relationship with Angel. I have plans for a more extensive Buffy fic, but I want to get a handle on the characters first. I think I did pretty well, considering this is my first time writing in this universe. _**

**_Reviews are welcome. Thanks for reading!_**


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